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This is Rosita. I'll hit you back when I can.

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"Lawyers don't. But husbands do."

She doesn't know anything else about his life, doesn't know what fanily he has, but he brought up a husband.

Then the corner of her mouth twists with uncharacteristic bitterness.

"Well. Unless you're hiding here from him, too."

"God, no." He misses Alec terribly, which is why he goes home once a week. "Besides, if I tried, he knows where to find me. Have you ever been married?"

"Oh, well in that case," she replies, not at all forgiving.

When she answers, "No," a handful of broken glass falls so gently into the sand behind her that it barely makes any sound.

Ooh. That's heavy. He looks at the broken glass and at her, waiting for her to address it, but she probably won't.

"Well it's about trust. How often have you trusted anyone before now?"

She is absolutely not going to address it, and she in fact ignores that it ever happened.

"Oh well spotted: I have trust issues," she answers, the only warning he gets before she drops her arms.

It won't be long before razor wire starts coiling into existence to one side, strand after strand layering up as she speaks.

"Everyone likes to jump on that the second they think they can like I don't know that about myself, like I don't have a reason for it or like I'm not making a conscious choice. Most people don't deserve to be trusted. People I'll have a conversation with in a hallway don't necessarily deserve to come into my house or learn my name, let alone anything else. Trust is earned, not once, but over and over and over again because at any point most people will only too happily use that, too, to get something they need when it's them or you, so don't stand there and act like it's as simple as how often anyone has trusted anyone else before now."

"I get that." The razor wire and all the rest.

"The thing is, you can hijack the system. You can tell who wants something good based on how quickly they give something good." A stew instead of something held back for things they want. "You can read what people want based on how fast they give you what you want."

"You can tell who wants something good from you," she amends.

"But sure. Let's hear more."

"You think I'm so different from you?" Lark asks. "The rule is the same for you. You just have to know the right questions to ask."

"No, I mean - I want good things. But I don't want anything from you, so the scale is off. Just because a person isn't willing to negotiate with another person doesn't mean they're not good - whatever good even fucking means."

She shakes her head, but at least the razor wire has stopped.

"Just. Get to the point."

"Hang on I'm still interested in what this," toeing his boot in the broken glass, "means to you."

"You're not owed anything because you asked a question and the ship made something happen."

She sucks the back of her teeth and does not look down or away.

"What do you think it means?"

"I think it means you've risked a lot and you haven't been rewarded for it often," he says, kicking shards of glass away. "I think it means you're still willing to risk a lot but god fucking help the person who bets wrong on you."

She doesn't answer right away. In fact seconds keep ticking past and it might seem like she isn't going to answer at all.

She doesn't know he can smell exactly how deep his assessment digs. How hearing it aloud reaches right down inside her and both digs in a still raw, gaping wound but hits steel as well.

She shakes her head.

"You seem to be doing alright."

"I tend to do," Lark agrees quietly, but he's watching her, watching those reactions. "You haven't given up," is his assessment. "And we should all be glad you haven't."

She doesn't know about that part anyway. Jesus has said she helps the communities be successful, keeps people alive, and she knows she has. She knows she's an asset wherever she is, if people let her be.

Instead of saying any of that what she says is, "If my group found anyone on the road, anyone we were considering letting join us. We had three questions we'd ask them."

Three questions. Those are survivor questions, no doubt. Boiled down to the essentials.

"Ask me," he prompts. See where he lands with them.

"How many walkers have you killed?"

She almost waves it off since he's not from her world but then remembers they're here, where she's talking to a werewolf and friendly with a vampire, so why not.

"None, so far," he says, although he thinks a moment. "Maybe a handful in Hell. But not many."

"Hell?" She blinks.

"Vacation spot from the Barge?"

"No, it was a literal Hell we had to fight our way out of. We crash land sometimes, or the ship malfunctions, and we end up stranded." Occupational hazards around here vary.

Oh okay, well that's. Something.

She leaves it for now with a shake of her head.

"How many people have you killed?"

He doesn't answer right away. He has to count, for one thing. For another it's not something he's ever been asked before.

"Seventy-two."

Rosita has a count in her head. She did before they ever agreed on how to induct new members into the group.

She considers him a moment, dark eyes narrowed.

"Why?" Not a frivolous question, but the final one.

"To protect my people. Because he was a child trafficker who had seen my face. And then I was fighting a war." So many reasons, but all rooted more or less in self-defense or defense of others.

"Do I get to ask these questions back at you?"

She's watching him, not that she's entirely unconcerned with the answer itself, but the truth of the matter is that no one trying to hide something is going to just admit to it outright. The tells are still there.

Her arms stay folded. She shrugs.

"You can. Normally it would be people we found out on the road though, who would want to join us instead of the other way around."